


Revelations

by helsinkibaby



Series: Protection [12]
Category: The West Wing
Genre: Angst, F/M, Forbidden Love, Past Abortion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 03:01:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2835605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helsinkibaby/pseuds/helsinkibaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The world finds out Ellie's secret - one of them at least.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revelations

**Author's Note:**

> So a very long time ago, I did a whole Ellie/Wes series. And this was begun as part of it but never finished. When I saw a lonely prompt at comment fic that was "Ellie, secret service protection" I remembered that universe, and this fic, and I pulled it out, tidied it up and finished it. The rest of the series needs to be tidied up for timeline purposes but will be put up here soon!

It's the end of another day and CJ's getting ready to go home. But while she's reading the briefing book that Toby dropped on her lap an hour ago, the book she's going to have to quote liberally from tomorrow, she finds herself thinking that things are going fairly well for them. They're two months away from the Midterm elections, and while there's a fair amount of insanity that goes along with that, district polling numbers and suchlike, the polling numbers they have at the moment has them holding even easily, if not picking up a few seats. Besides which, CJ can't help but think back to the Midterms of the first term, and all that went on then - they're in much better shape this time.

She's considering going home, because she can read as easily there as here, but when her door flies open, when Carol bursts in, all wide eyes and pale face, CJ knows she's not going to get out of here easily after all, and a voice in her head that sounds way too much like Toby for her taste rails at her about tempting fate.

Hearing the words "Mary Marsh" in conjunction with the look on Carol's face is enough to make CJ's blood pressure rise, but when she hears the rest, CJ knows that they've got another disaster on their hands, and she goes straight into crisis management mode.

"Get me everything you can on it," she orders, and Carol's already put an intern on it, so CJ moves on to the next thing on her list. "And get me Ellie on the phone."

Carol moves off to do just that, and CJ closes the briefing book with a bang; no need to read this now, it's just got bumped off the radar. Closing her eyes, she takes in a deep breath, savours the last silence she's going to have for quite some time.

To no-one in particular, she murmurs, "I was done…"

*

The phone rings in Ellie's Baltimore apartment, but she's in the middle of a deep and dreamless sleep, the product of the twenty-hour shift from hell, and she doesn't stir. It takes her roommate coming in and turning on the light, phone in hand, to penetrate her slumber, and even then, Heidi has to repeat herself twice before Ellie remembers who and where she is.

When she finally hears CJ's name, she wakes up in a hurry, because never, in her experience, has someone from the White House Senior Staff calling her unexpectedly brought good news. Her hand is shaking when she reaches out to take the phone, and the tremors only intensify when she hears CJ's voice, not angry, not upset, but concerned, worried, infinitely gentle.

Then she hears CJ's words, makes sense of them, and her heart rises into her throat as she realises that nothing in her life is ever going to be the same again.

*

Though the feeling of awe and wonder never diminishes, Will's not the same wide-eyed terrified speechwriter who was, once upon a time, terrified to set foot inside the Oval Office. He's come a long way in the last almost-two-years, has grown in stature, in confidence, and he's never nervous before going into the Oval anymore.

But he's nervous as hell now, and the only thing that makes him feel any better is that Toby Ziegler, a man that he'd thought it was impossible to terrify, is standing beside him, looking every bit as nervous as Will feels. Not only that, but Josh is shifting slightly on his feet, his fingers beating a steady tattoo against his thigh, his eyes darting all over the place.

The most composed of them all is CJ, which is quite something, considering that she's the one in the line of fire at the present moment, the one who's on the business end of the President's ire. He was shouting fire and brimstone the second they all came in, but when he hears that CJ has actually spoken to Ellie, the volume rises several levels. No matter that Will agrees with CJ, thinks she did the right thing, especially when she tells the President that she didn't think Ellie should hear what happened from some random individual, or worse, a reporter. The President takes that cue, launching into a tirade against the press, reminding them all of the rules that he's set up when dealing with his daughters, and Josh snorts, muttering something about the likes of Mary Marsh feeling as if the rules didn't apply to them.

The President turns his death glare on Josh, who swallows hard, and CJ takes the chance to jump in, adding also that she wanted to talk to Ellie, ask her was it true. Which has the President turning to her sharply, something very much like hope burning in his eyes. He utters two simple words. "Is it?"

There's a second's pause that seems to last an eternity before CJ slowly nods. "Yes," she sighs, and Will's never seen a reaction like this from the President. It's like ten miles of wind goes out of his sails, and he slumps down into his seat, running a hand over his face.

"That poor kid," he murmurs, more to himself than to them, but Will can't help but agree.

*

When the alarm goes off and wakes Zoey up, the first thought in her mind is that she's never drinking again. She drags her tired body out of bed, stumbles to the kitchen where she pours herself a glass of orange juice, takes a couple of gulps before she freezes, her gaze falling on the answering machine, and the blinking red light showing the number sixteen.

She was too tired and too drunk to check the machine when she came in last night, but she's never had sixteen messages in her life, and she's suddenly very scared.

She walks over to the table, stands looking down at the phone, afraid to press the button, and while she's trying to marshal up her courage, the phone rings, but she can't bring herself to answer it either.

She breathes a sigh of relief when Charlie's voice fills the room. "Zoey, it's me," he says. "If you're screening, pick up…I need to talk-"

That's all she lets him say before she grabs the phone, says a breathless hello.

He doesn't bother with formalities, they know one another too well for that, so he launches straight into the main reason for his call. "Have you heard the news since last night?"

"No," she says, more than a little scared, more than a little curious. "I was out last night and didn't check my messages…"

He interrupts her. "Mary Marsh was on Capitol Beat last night," he says, and the name makes her roll her eyes. "There was a panel on women's issues, specifically a woman's right to choose…" Charlie pauses, and Zoey's heart skips a beat. "Zoey, she said that Ellie had an abortion three years ago."

He stops there, as if leaving room for Zoey to comment. Her opinion isn't long in coming. "That bitch."

*

Wesley's at his post with two other agents when his cell phone rings, and when he sees Brian's name on the display, he doesn't think twice about stepping out of their makeshift command centre - in reality, the apartment across the hall from Zoey's - to take it. Brian's been a friend of his since he joined the Service, and this call could be about any number of things, very few of them work related.

He answers the phone with a smile, but it doesn't last long, not when he hears Brian asking him, in a more hesitant tone than he's ever heard the other man use, if he's heard the news this morning. He replies in the negative, because Zoey was out until all hours last night, and he's not as young as he used to be. He came back here, should have gone back to his place, but sacked out on a couch instead.

He doesn't realise that something's wrong until Brian doesn't reply, and that's when Wesley feels his blood turning to ice in his veins.

"What happened?"

"Mary Marsh was on television last night," Brian tells him. "You know who she is?"

Wesley scans his memory. "Right wing, ultra-conservative Bartlet hater?" is the description he comes up with, and Brian confirms his assessment tersely.

"Right. It was a panel on women's issues, and the issue of a woman's right to choose came up…" Wesley has no idea where the other man is going with this, never sees the punch coming until he's sprawled on the ground. "Wes, Ellie had an abortion nearly three years ago."

It takes a second for Wesley to do the math, and then it hits him. "Nearly?" he says, and he's shocked at how calm his voice is, especially when his hand is shaking, his heart pounding.

Brian confirms his suspicion. "Three years in December," he says, and Wesley's jaw drops, because he knows what that means, what he never knew before now.

"You knew about this?" he demands, because it's the only thing that makes sense, the only reason that Brian would be calling him this morning.

"I took her to the hospital," Brian says, and Wesley leans his back against the wall, having heard from Josh that it was supposed to calm you down. It didn’t work for him. "Me and Molly."

Wesley closes his eyes at the mention of the other agent, dead under his command, and another penny drops as he remembers something Ellie once told him, the night that Molly died, about how Molly had been there for her during some tough times.

He just wishes that he could have been there for her.

"Brian, why the hell didn't you tell me?" His voice rises as he speaks, his hand making a resounding thump against the wall, and Brian's voice raises in response.

"Because we thought that the lead agent knocking up the President's daughter mightn't be good publicity for the Service!" It's a cruel thing to say, but it's undoubtedly true, and Wesley closes his eyes, letting his head fall back against the wall. He doesn’t speak, can't speak, and Brian's voice fills his ears. "I shouldn't have said that…"

"Why not?" Wesley doesn't open his eyes. "It's true."

Brian sighs. "You should know though … she didn't tell us. She didn't tell anyone. We worked it out."

Wesley hears what he's not saying as clearly as what he is. "Which means that anyone else could too."

"Any of the agents who suspect won't say anything," Brian says. "And she won't either."

"Yeah." Which, if anything, makes Wesley feel worse, because it means that Ellie's going to be hung out to dry, and he's not going to be able to do anything to help her. "The brass is probably going to want to question you … "

"We don't report on the protectee's movements," comes the pat response; Wesley could rattle it off too. "We can't do our job if she doesn't trust us."

Except that Wesley hadn't done his job, hadn't protected her. He'd let himself care for her, let it go further than it should, and now she was paying the price. "Yeah," he echoes dully. "I'll talk to you later, man."

He barely hears Brian's goodbye, and he heaves a sigh, rubbing a hand over his face, as if that's going to make him feel better. Shaking his head, he mutters, "Ellie … " thinking of the many things he wants to say to her, if he could just think straight.

"Wesley?" He jumps when he hears a voice, his eyes flying open to see Zoey, standing at the open doorway to her apartment, staring at him with wide eyes.

*

When Zoey hangs up with Charlie, she knows what she has to do, and where she has to go, so with that in mind, she pulls on a pair of jeans and a shirt, opens her apartment door to go to the "command centre" across the hall. She stops dead when she sees Wesley there, sees the look on his face. It's a pretty exact mirror of the emotions that she's feeling, and he's so intent on his phone conversation that he doesn't even hear the door open, doesn't see her. She knows she shouldn't be listening, but something glues her feet to the floor, and she hears him mention the name Brian, hears the other things that he says, and as she's standing there, in the doorway to her apartment, she knows.

She knows she's right when he hangs up the phone, rubs his hand over her face and mutters her sister's name.

"Wesley?" she says, and his eyes fly open, and he looks shocked at her.

"Zoey," he replies, standing up straight, obviously trying to pull himself together. "How long have you been standing there?"

She answers his question without really answering it. "It's you," she says softly, amazed. "You're the one…"

His eyes dart up and down the corridor, and he looks over her shoulder, into her apartment, gestures in that direction. "Can we-?" he asks, and she nods dumbly, stepping aside to let him through.

When they step inside though, she doesn't let him get a word in. "It's you," she says, and she doesn't keep her voice down either. "You're the father of Ellie's baby." She regrets the words when she sees his reaction; a visible wince. "Wesley, how did this happen?"

Against all odds, his lips quirk up in a smile. "Zoey, if you don't know the facts of life…"

"You think this is funny?" she flares, and the smile disappears.

"Not in the least." He sighs, rubs his forehead again, begins to pace her living room. "Ellie and I … we got close. When I was on her detail. And we both knew that nothing could happen between us … "

She remembers Christmas three years ago, talking to Ellie in her room, begging her to tell her what was wrong. She remembers her saying much the same thing, remembers how she jumped to the conclusion that Ellie's mystery man was married, how Ellie had let her go on thinking that. She understood why now.

"And nothing did," Wesley continues. "I got transferred back to Washington … but that year, after Ellie's birthday… "

Zoey nods, remembering how her dad had decided they needed some family time, used Ellie's birthday as a belated reason, much to Ellie's displeasure at the time. "We were all at Camp David," she murmurs and he sighs, turns away from her and she can't be sure but she thinks he's pinching the bridge of his nose with his hand. "God, Wesley … "

He swings around to face her, and the look of naked pain in his eyes sears through her heart. She's never seen that look on anyone's face before, and she hopes she never will again. "Have you spoken to her?"

Zoey has to shake her head, knowing that the negative answer is hurting him more. "Charlie called me," she says. "Then I found you."

He sighs again, sinks down on her couch with his head in his hands. "She didn't tell me," he says, and Zoey has the distinct impression that he's talking to himself more than to her. "And I don't know why … I mean … did she think I wouldn't be there for her?"

Something else Ellie said to her on that day so long ago comes to Zoey's mind, and she goes to him, sits down beside him on the couch, laying a hand on his shoulder. "No," she whispers. "It's because she knew you would be." And his being there for her would have ruined his career, and Ellie would never have wanted to be the cause of that.

He turns his head to her. "She should have told me," and she doesn’t disagree with him.

What she does do is say what she wanted to say in the first place. "Charlie told me that Dad's summoned Ellie to the Residence," she says, and his eyes close as if in pain. "I think I'd like to be there for her … can we move things over there?"

He holds her gaze for what seems like a long time, then nods slowly. "Yeah," he says. "That sounds like a plan."

*

"You should sit down, Jed."

He knows Abbey is telling him the truth, envies her her composure, but the fact of the matter is, he could no more stop pacing the floors of the Residence living room than King Canute could stop the incoming tide.

How can he sit down, he wants to ask her, how can he sit calmly and wait, when his middle daughter, one of his babies is being crucified on the national airwaves?

How can he sit down when he's the most powerful man in the country, perhaps the world, and he can't do a thing to protect her?

How can he sit down when she couldn't even come to them about this, about one of the most profound, the most terrible decisions that she'll ever have to make in their life? He knew that he and Ellie never got along particularly well, but he'd thought that they were making progress, that things were getting better. He'd thought that she would know that she could come to him if she had a problem.

For that matter, he'd thought that she would have gone to Abbey, and he turns to her, wants to ask her if she did, and if so, why didn't she tell him about it. But his question dies on his lips when he sees the pallor of his wife's face, the tight lines around her lips that he knows weren't there twenty-four hours earlier. He realises then that she's taking this just as hard as he is, that she's asking the same questions as he is, so his words are a sigh of defeat.

"I don't know why she didn't come to us about this," he says softly, and Abbey laughs, a harsh, humourless chuckle.

"President's daughter … unmarried … pregnant…" she says bitterly, every word a sword to his heart. "I wonder why she felt she had to hide it."

He shakes his head, wanting to deny what he knows is true. "It's not like that," he says, almost to himself. "I'm not like that."

"You might not be." Abbey's voice is growing more strident. "But look at Mary holier-than-thou Marsh and her minions … look at what they're putting her through!" He has been looking, he's been looking all day, and it's killing him. "Have you heard what they're saying?"

"Of course I've heard!" Her ire rubs off on him, and he raises his voice, not caring who might hear him, not that there's many people around to do so. "Don't you think I'm aware of this, Abigail, don't you think that there are people who come into my office on an hourly basis with the latest opinion pieces and polls and -"

It's the wrong thing to say and he knows it when he sees the flash of anger in Abbey's eyes, when she stands, walks across to him, literally toe to toe with him. "You're taking polling samples on this? This isn't some political crisis, Jed, this is our daughter's life-"

"I know that, Abbey-"

They stop when they realise at the same time that they're not alone, that the daughter in question is standing at the door, staring at them, her eyes wide but dry. She still wears that long camel coat that he's been nagging her to throw out for years, her hair falling loose around her shoulders, but her bearing is erect, her head held high, and she even manages a ghost of a smile. "I guess I don’t have to ask what you're talking about," she says, the words breaking Abbey's trance, and she rushes to Ellie, pulling her into a fierce hug.

When she releases her, Abbey keeps a grip on Ellie's shoulders, looking at her hard. "Are you ok?" are her first words, and Ellie nods, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

"I'm fine, Mom," she says quietly, looking over at him, meeting his gaze without flinching, and he's surprised, because he can count on the fingers of one hand the times that Ellie's done that. "Hi, Dad."

"Ellie," he says gruffly, because it's hard to talk past the lump in his throat, but it's not because of Abbey's glare that he finds himself crossing the carpet, taking Ellie into his arms. It's because he can see that she's doing her best to be strong, but there's still a tremor of doubt in her eyes, and when he hugs her, while she returns it, he can feel it rippling along her shoulders as well.

He lets her go, and she steps back from him, straightens her shoulders as she looks between him and Abbey. "This isn't what I wanted," she tells them, and it sounds like there's a lump in her throat too, so he reaches out, pats her arm in what he hopes is a comforting gesture.

"You don't need to worry about that-" he begins, but she cuts him off.

"Yes, I do, Dad." Her voice is strong all of a sudden, her eyes bright, but with resolve, not tears. She looks every inch his daughter, her mother's daughter, and very little like the shy, timid Ellie he's used to dealing with, and the difference stuns him into silence. "Because it's my life that they're talking about … and they're doing it to hurt you. How can I not worry about that?"

Abbey shakes her head, touches Ellie's shoulder. "Sweetheart, that's not your fault … "

"Of course it's not," he interjects, and Ellie sighs, shaking her head.

"I didn't want this," she says again, and Abbey leads her over to the couch, sits down beside her with their hands joined. There's no room there for him, and he's reminded again that Ellie has always been Abbey's, so he sits on a chair across from them, leans forward and rests his arms on his knees.

"You know, Ellie," he says, "That we're here for you. No matter what the press say, no matter what effect it has politically … you're our daughter, and one hundred per cent, we're behind you." He's looking right into her eyes, and he doesn't blink. "You know that, right?"

This time, when her eyes are bright, it's with tears, and her nod, her whispered, "I know, Dad," tears at his heart. She looks down, pulls herself together, so that her voice is stronger when she next speaks. "I know you must have questions … "

"You don't have to tell us anything-" Abbey begins, but Ellie cuts her off by squeezing her hand.

"I wanted to tell you both. Really. But I was scared."

"Of us?" Abbey sounds dismayed, and his heart stops for a second, only starts again when Ellie shakes her head, glances at Abbey with a tiny smile.

"No, Mom, not of your reactions. But I knew you'd want me to keep the … baby." Her voice falters a little on the last word. "And I couldn't do that." He wants to ask her why, but she keeps on talking. "I knew I wasn't ready to be a mother. And I knew the political fall-out you'd have to deal with, no matter what I did." She looks at him then, holds his gaze steadily. "I did what I had to do … and there were Secret Service agents who knew about it, but they looked out for me, Dad, so please, don't punish them for that. They were only doing their jobs."

Something that he's heard a million times over the past few years comes to his mind. "They can't protect you if you can't trust them," he murmurs, and she nods.

"I wish things had been different," Ellie continues. "But I did what I thought was best."

Because that's how they raised their daughters, to be independent, to know their own minds, and he looks at her now, this beautiful woman who's practically a stranger to him, and he remembers a time he summoned her to the White House, to reprimand her for remarks she'd made to Danny Concannon. Then she'd stuttered and stammered, appeared ill at ease, had hidden behind a curtain of hair. Now she's poised, articulate, as if she's been anticipating this for years and knows just what she has to say to get through it. And maybe, he realises with a sudden flash of insight, she has.

That thought crystallises when Abbey asks gently, "Ellie … the father…"

Pain flares in Ellie's eyes, pain that's covered up quickly, but he's sure that neither of them missed it. "Was never going to be a part of my life," she says simply, and it's a dodge, and they all know it. He's not going to call her on it though, and neither is Abbey, who simply nods. "I don't know how they found out," Ellie continues, looking back at him again, and he makes a noise of disgust.

"Ellie, these people will always find a way to hurt others," he says, because there's no way of knowing how long someone's been sitting on this, and the fact that it's come out two months before the Midterms is no coincidence. "You don't need to worry about anything other than getting yourself through this." He smiles at her. "I have a staff of people who worry about the political side of things, and the rule about no press contact with my children still sends."

Abbey's muttered, "Damn straight," makes Ellie smile, and seeing that, he can't resist adding, "There's going to be a large press presence in Yemen in the near future," and he's gratified when she bursts out laughing. "That's more like it," he tells her. "Look, you've had a long day. Why don't you go wash up, unpack? You're staying for a while, right?" Because once upon a time, she wouldn't have, but this time, she smiles.

"I thought I might hide out here for a few days," she says. "If that's ok."

"Of course it is sweetheart." Abbey's words dare him to say that it's not, as if he ever would, but there is something he needs to bring up with her.

"We have that thing at the Kennedy Centre tonight-" he reminds her, and she stares at him in disgust.

"To hell with the Kennedy Centre!" she begins, but Ellie talks across them again, her voice strong and confident, and he wonders again at the change in his daughter in a few short years.

"You guys should go," she says. "Give them something to talk about, other than the fact that you're hiding with your problem middle daughter … you really want the next news cycle to be all about the family crisis that I've plunged us into?"

"News cycle?" He can't resist a chance to tease her. "This from the daughter who shows zero interest in politics?"

Once upon a time, she might have shrunk away from those words; today, she greets them with a sassy shrug and sparkling eyes. "I've picked up a few things," she tells him, and he shakes his head, standing up and going over to her, leaning over and kissing the top of her head.

"I am," he tells her softly, "Incredibly proud of you, Eleanor."

There are tears in her eyes as she slips her arms around his waist, holding him tightly for a moment. "I'm proud of you too, Dad," she tells him, and no words have ever sounded sweeter.

*

It seems like hours that her father told her to go and wash up, telling her that she'd had a long day, and she'd wanted to point out to him that it was nowhere near over, but things had gone so well with him, better than she'd ever expected, that she didn't want to tempt fate. She'd been right though. In the hours since that conversation, she'd had a heart to heart with Zoey, who had come to her bedroom when she'd arrived, hugging her, telling her that she'd worked out everything, demanding that Ellie talk to her about it. Ellie had balked at first, but then she'd broken down, had told Zoey everything, every little detail. It had been a long talk, and many tears had been shed, but it had been the first time that Ellie had been able to be so open, and she feels all the better for it. That emotional catharsis over with, she'd run the gauntlet of the West Wing, past the curious gazes of workers who didn't know her, acknowledging Josh's concerned smile, even Toby's gruff nod, which, knowing Toby, she took to be also a gesture of concern. She'd gone to CJ's office, attempted to apologise to the press secretary for what was happening, only to be told, firmly and stridently, that it wasn't her fault, and that CJ was more than able to smack down reporters who didn't understand phrases like "right to privacy" and "Yemen is nice this time of year." She'd left the office feeling better, but it only takes a cursory scan of the news channels to realise that the story isn't going to away any time soon.

That realisation is enough to sap whatever strength she might have had, so she retreats to her room, grateful that her parents are respecting her need for space, more grateful still that they're going to the Kennedy Centre tonight. At least that way, she doesn't feel vaguely guilty, as if she really should be spending time with them, putting on a brave face so that they don't worry about her, don't pepper her with questions. Zoey is being just as accommodating, telling her that she and Charlie are going to watch movies in the family room, and that she's more than welcome to join them. It's a token offer though, the same one that they've been making for years, the one that she never takes them up on, because there's no way that she's going to be a third wheel, but she understands why Zoey keeps up the act, trying to pretend that things are as normal as possible.

Her sister doesn't realise that normal for Ellie is dealing with this alone; that that's been her normality for nearly three years now, more than that if you count the time that she was falling for Wesley and he for her. She's not used to people knowing everything, looking at her curiously, and solitary confinement with only "Anne of the Island" for company is her way of shutting out the world.

She skips the main body of the book, finding only her favourite parts, the Anne and Gilbert parts, and she's reading Gilbert's second proposal for the fourth time when there's a knock at the door. She's sure that it's going to be Zoey, so she sits up straight, putting her bookmark in the page as she calls out, "Come in." She just hopes that whatever her sister wants, it's not going to take long.

But then the door opens and shuts quickly, and her heart stops in mid-beat when she realises that her visitor isn't Zoey.

"Hello, Ellie."

The words are measured, perfectly neutral, and from them, there's no way to know how he's feeling. His handsome features are schooled into perfect Secret Service Agent passivity, his suit draping impeccably and wrinkle free, no clue there either. But she knows this man, can read his eyes from clear across the room, and she can see the confusion, the hurt there.

She's been dealing with this pain for nearly three years, and it's doubled when she sees it reflected on his face.

She stands shakily, her legs barely supporting her, her eyes filling with tears as she walks towards him. He doesn't speak, keeps his hands at his sides, and there's so much she wants to say to him, and nowhere near the words to say it.

She settles for a simple shake of the head, a whispered, "I'm sorry," and then the next thing she knows, she's in his arms, her head buried in his shoulder, her arms around his neck.

Somewhere it registers in her mind that he doesn't hesitate, his arms going around her, hands making fists of the material of her shirt.

Somewhere it registers that she's crying, whispering apologies as her shoulders shake.

Somewhere it registers that he's crying too, because she can hear it in his voice when he's telling her that it's all right, that everything is going to be ok.

It's that realisation that makes her pull back from him, makes her look up at him, though her arms stay where they are around his neck, and her body remains pressed against his. "I'm sorry," she whispers again, looking him in the eye this time, because she wants him to see in hers how sorry she really is, how it's not just words. He could always read her too.

He shakes his head, his hands moving up from her back to curl around her shoulders, kneading them gently. He opens his mouth to speak, closes it again with a sigh. "You should have told me, Ellie," he eventually says, and while it sounds like it could be, should be, a recrimination, she knows it's not. It's just a simple statement of fact, and he's right.

So she nods. "I know," she says simply, but there are reasons, reasons why she didn't, and they're what she wants to tell him now, if they have time, if he wants to hear them. "Can you talk?" she asks, the question she asked him so many nights back in Baltimore when officially he'd be checking her apartment for the night, taking longer about it than he perhaps should have, just so they could have a few extra minutes alone.

He nods, so she steps away from him, missing the warmth of him immediately, but a different kind of warmth takes its place when he takes off his suit jacket, hanging it carefully across the back of a chair. His tie follows, and when he undoes the top button of his shirt, rolls up his sleeves to the elbows, she has to actually turn away for a moment, because she's remembering too much, and it hurts.

She sits down on the bed, joining her hands on her knees and stares at them, only looking at him when she feels the bed dip beside her, feels his body touching hers. He reaches out straight away, taking her hand in his, and she stares at that, knows what he's saying with that simple gesture; that he's here, that he's with her.

She's not alone any more, and she's never felt more like crying.

"Camp David?" he finally asks, and she nods, because they both know that that's the only time that it could have happened, the one time that they'd given in to temptation.

"I wanted to tell you," she whispers, her voice thick with tears, and the pressure on her hand increases for a moment. It's enough to give her the strength to continue. "But I knew I couldn't."

"You could have." His voice is calm and quiet when he cuts across her. "I would have been there for you."

"I know." She did know, then and now; that's why she did what she did. That's what made it so hard. "That's the problem." She's not looking at him, just their hands, but from the corner of her eye, she sees that he's looking hard at her. "You're a Secret Service Agent, Wes, and I'm the President's daughter. It would have ruined your life."

She knows she's right, but he still objects. "It would have ruined my career," he tells her, conviction ringing in his tone. "It wouldn't have ruined my life."

She has to close her eyes at that, swallows hard to keep the lump in her throat from escaping through her eyes and down her cheeks. "I couldn't tell you," she manages to choke out, able only to repeat the mantra that's sustained her for the last three years. "I had to protect you."

There's a harsh, mirthless chuckle from the man beside her. "That's supposed to be my job," he tells her.

She sighs, and the act seems to take the rest of her strength, because she finds herself leaning against him, resting her head on his shoulder. "I didn't have a choice," she tells him, because that's what she thought at the time, and she still believes it. "No matter what I did, someone was going to get hurt. I thought this way, it would only be me." At the time, she refused to think of the baby as a baby, as a potential new life. It had been the only way she could get through it, though it's been harder and harder to do since then. "No-one was ever meant to know."

He releases her hand from his, and just like when he let her go a few minutes before, she misses the warmth of him immediately. It gets better though when he slips his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him, resting his head on top of hers. His other hand takes hers, his thumb brushing idly over her skin, sending shivers up and down her spine. "I know why you did it," he says quietly, and the words take a weight from her shoulders. "I understand why you did it." He sighs. "I just wish things could have been different."

Her "Me too," is barely audible, even in the silent room, and she almost stop breathing when he lets go of her hand, moving his to her chin, lifting her head so that she's looking at his face, looking into his eyes. She knows, on some level deep inside that she should move away from him, that this, whatever it is between them, is too intense, that she should put a stop to it. But the look in his eyes holds her prisoner. She's seen a distant cousin of it innumerable times, when he was on her detail, when he'd sit beside her in a movie theatre on a Friday night, when he danced with her in the Rose Garden on the night of her father's second Inauguration. But this look, she's only seen once before, in a deserted cabin at Camp David. She couldn't move away from it then, nor can she do so now.

"I wish a lot of things were different," he whispers, and she knows he's going to kiss her a split second before he does it. In that split second, there's a war between her heart and her head, the latter telling her that this is a bad idea, that she should push him away, the former wanting to pull him closer and never let him go. When his lips meet hers however, infinitely gentle, there's never a doubt which way the war will end.

*

Wesley knows, like he knows his own name, that kissing Ellie is a bad idea. They're in her bedroom, in the Residence of the White House, and even though her parents are out, and Zoey's promised him a hundred different ways that neither she nor Charlie will come anywhere near this room, there's still a risk that they could be found. He knows what would happen then, but when he's this close to her, when he can feel her in his arms, all he wants to do is kiss her.

So that's what he does, wondering all the while that even though his world's been rocked to its foundations in the course of today, when he's holding her, it all seems to make perfect sense.

He's not sure how much later it is when he comes back to himself, how much time has passed. But when he stops kissing her, stares instead into her eyes, running lazy fingers through her hair, he realises that they're lying down on the bed, limbs entangled, bodies pressed close together. Clothes are rumpled, but otherwise undisturbed, and it amazes him to realise that he, a grown man, a Secret Service agent yet, has just spent who knows how long in the White House Residence, necking like a teenager with the President's daughter.

Who just happens to be a phenomenal woman who he's sure he's in love with.

Unfortunately, that's neither here nor there at the moment.

Depressing as the realisation is, he still can't do anything but smile at her, because she's looking up at him with those eyes and that smile, and it's enough, always has been. "I have missed you," he tells her honestly, running a knuckle lightly down her cheek.

"Me too," she whispers. They stare like that for a few more precious moments, moments where he basks in the luxury of being able to hold her like this, look at her like this. But then he sees a shadow fall across her eyes, and he knows that their time is almost up. "But it can't last, can it?"

She knows the answer as well as he does, but it still breaks his heart to have to confirm it. "No."

She sighs, nods. "Then you should go," she tells him, her voice strong, another firm little nod to emphasise her point, but she doesn't move.

"Yeah." Neither does he, at least, not to stand. He does lean forward though, brushes his lips over hers, one last kiss he promises himself, one last memory to sustain him.

Then he pulls away from her reluctantly, stands up and looks down at her, fixing the image of her there, looking up at him. Once he's sure that it's frozen in his mind, he rolls down his shirt sleeves, buttoning the cuffs, doing up the top buttons of his shirt and tying his tie with practised ease. Somewhere in the middle of that, he hears her chuckle. "I remember the last time we did this," she tells him, and he glances back over his shoulder at her, his mind's eye transposing the image of her now with the image of her at Camp David, her watching him dress.

"Seems to me that it wasn't quite like this," he teases, because she'd had quite a bit more skin on display, the blankets doing a poor job of hiding her body from his gaze.

She takes the teasing in the spirit it was intended, a giggle escaping her. "True," she says, standing up too, coming over to him and handing him his jacket. He slips it on, buttons it up, and he's trying his best to adjust it, trying to make himself look not as rumpled when he hears her ordering him to stand still. Surprised into obedience, he watches in the mirror as she straightens the shoulders of his jacket, brushing down the back of it with smooth strokes, making sure that it sits just so. When she's finished, she steps back, looks him up and down and nods once. "Much better," she pronounces, and he turns to her, running his hands up and down her arms.

There are so many things he wants to say to her right now, but he can't find the words. What comes out is, "Are you going to be ok?"

She gives him a half-smile, and what he's sure is supposed to be a sassy shrug. "I'll be fine," she tells him, and he's not so sure he believes her, wishes he could do more.

"You know if you need me-"

"I'll call." But she won't, and he knows it, communicates as much to her with a look.

He doesn't call her on it though, saying instead, "I meant what I said before, Ellie. I really do wish that things could be different."

She nods, and when she speaks, there are tears in her eyes. "This is it, huh?"

They've said that before, but this time, it's true. "Yeah." He's not going to say the word though, can barely bring himself to think it. He gets around it with, "I have to go."

He holds her gaze for a long moment before turning, and he gets as far as the door before he feels her hand on his arm, and when he turns back to her, she's in his arms, her lips finding his. Shocked, he returns the kiss, but the shock he feels then is nothing compared to the shock he feels when she pulls back, her hand going to his cheek. "I love you," she whispers, tears streaming down her cheeks, and he has to swallow hard to avoid the same fate.

"I love you too," he whispers, pressing a kiss to her forehead, and it's all he can do to step back, opening the door, turning for one last glimpse of her standing in the room, looking at him.

The hardest thing he's ever had to do in his life was leave her in Camp David, but it's harder by far to close the door behind him, and he finds himself standing in the corridor, his hand on the doorknob, every impulse in his body screaming to walk back in there. But instead, he pulls himself up straight, fixes his jacket and walks resolutely down the hall, away from her.

His eyes are the only part of him that aren't looking back.

 


End file.
